


Alternative Career Options

by RegentOfTheAuxArcs



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Neighbors, Crack Treated Seriously, F/M, Inspired by Music, M/M, Other, Reader-Insert, Small Fandom, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, University, Unspecified gender reader, but that's okay, everyone is human
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-12
Updated: 2017-09-12
Packaged: 2018-12-26 21:21:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12067206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RegentOfTheAuxArcs/pseuds/RegentOfTheAuxArcs
Summary: So what do you do when you're in a universe where "Sith Lord" isn't a viable career choice anymore? There are plenty of things to do. You just have to get creative.





	Alternative Career Options

**Author's Note:**

> Please don't sue. It's obvious what's mine and what's not and I promise I make no money off this. There's a hecking lot of music reference in here and I'm far too lazy to make a pun off of Facebook.

My college started class in a little over a week, but I just managed to get moved into one of the few open apartments near campus the week before. It was a steal, even if it was just a studio without central heat and air and on the damn second floor. It was only a five-minute walk to Old Main and Ozark Hall, and that’s where I’d be spending anywhere from eight to twelve hours a day anyway. I’d hoped for the real college experience this semester, no rushing, less stress, maybe anthropology and something like a social life? It’d be nice. I’d been working hard since my first semester freshman year. As a junior, I thought maybe some of the pressure would let up a little.

I first noticed the music on move-in day. It came from the apartment directly under me.

It was loud, but I didn’t mind. I thought it must be someone else moving in, blasting some motivation. That’s okay, I did the same thing. I spent so much time and energy hauling stuff up and when my friend got there, working on furniture, I didn’t give it a second thought. Once everything was in its place and I needed to start unpacking, I listened for it again. There was nothing.

Roughly about the same time in the morning, it would start again every day. My sleep schedule has me up and around about an hour before it started. I’d just be sitting down for coffee and a book for a while and it would always be bass first. The first week ran the gamut from Immaculate Collection Madonna to House of Balloons-era The Weeknd to Sounds of the Universe Depeche Mode. There would be parts of albums, some individual random songs, and then, just as abruptly as it began, it would stop about two hours later. Sometimes the tantalizing scent of meat cooking would waft down if I kept my windows open afterwards. It was too hot to do that most days, but it’d be amazing during the rain.  
This person got a name. I called them Downstairs.

I was a little worried when class started that it would be a distraction, but the day before, it kept the same schedule. The first morning of class, I managed to oversleep from staying up too late with anxiety the night before, but “Rhiannon” woke me. I’d loved Fleetwood Mac since my mom introduced them to me in junior high and it really saved me a ton of embarrassment, being late the first day. I didn’t have time to wonder much on my way out the door—there was barely time to grab all my things and dress in real clothes, but I certainly did on the jog to campus. I loved Downstairs’ taste in music and hell, it was reliable enough to function as an alarm. I briefly entertained the thought of going down and saying hello. 

The overwhelming energy it took to get through the social interactions of the first week left me too drained to act yet. I was also wrong about the workload, it was as much as it had been before. If anything, it was more writing, more reading, less time. There wasn’t a lot of time to socialize outside of scrolling down Facebook and that got old fast. So many of my friends were getting married and having kids and I just didn’t keep in step with them anymore. I didn’t like to think about that. It felt like I had a choice between doing what I loved and having a “real life”.

I finally decided to say something—since class started, I’d hear whatever Downstairs was hearing as I got ready, and later that night, around seven or so, I’d hear whatever Downstairs heard for that hour. It was just as regular as the morning show. I enjoyed having my morning coffee and dinner with the soundtrack, it was almost like having someone there with me.

This extended to midterms. August in my state is hellishly hot, September sees just enough cool that it’s not just disgusting, but October is perfect. October is windows-open-all-the-time weather and rainy nights. 

I tidied up my last paper. I had one more exam, but I kept on top of stuff, so I could afford a night off. I hadn’t been paying attention to the clock, but I knew the sun was down and when I heard the opening to “Chandelier” I knew it was time. I’d put it off for months, but I knew for sure Downstairs was home, I had a week’s worth of brownies in the fridge specifically for midterms, and I could no longer make excuses. If they moved out and I never bothered to try and be friends, I could lose something special and I just couldn’t live with that. We had at least this in common and their life was organized enough to fit into an apartment just like mine, surely they weren't hiding a spouse and kids in there.  
So I got together a Tupperware of sweets, threw on shoes, and made my way downstairs.

Every once in a while, I’d be tempted to steal a peek in Downstairs’ curtains on my way to campus, but they were always covered. Probably blackout curtains like mine. I got lucky this time—the AC unit in the front window was on high and blowing them around and I could see a few things in there. There was very little in the way of furnishings, a couch on one wall, and a weird-looking long, straight bar plated into the wall on the other side. And stood up against the kitchen counter looking back at the rest of the room was a huge framed mirror.  
That’s where I saw him.  
Lean muscle, bold black tattoos like squid arms from his neck all the way down his arms and sides and everywhere. Naked to the waist, still slick with sweat. He had to be at least mid-twenties, maybe older, I couldn’t tell precisely. I vaguely recognized what he was doing, too. I’d seen a few things at the Walton Arts Center and this was definitely based on ballet, but something else mixed in. He did the grand-vault across the bare room and stopped, facing the mirror but not looking. It seemed like his shoulders were jointed entirely different from his chest and belly and arms, they moved, isolated, ridiculously fluid. Oh my god, it was beautiful.  
He looked up and snapped from the trance.

I almost dropped the container trying to get to the door to knock, god forbid he’d caught me looking. He opened the door in the middle of the second knock. I got the full effect of his body and face at once this time and he was out of breath and his nose twitched and he frowned slightly. I wasn't expecting this level of pure displeasure. Panic set in.  
“Hi, I’m…upstairs.”  
He quirked an eyebrow and stared for a minute, trying to process.  
“Is it too loud? I can turn it down. You’re not the first. Sorry to bother you,” he said.  
He started closing the door, but I just couldn’t let him.  
“Wait! It’s not that, please don’t turn it down.”  
He opened back up, clearly bamboozled.  
“I like it. I listen to it almost every day. I just wanted to bring you this. I figured you were a student since like everyone else around here is and midterms are hard and everyone likes chocolate?” The words kept falling out and there was nothing I could do to cram them back in.  
“Do you want to come in for a minute? Sorry, nobody has ever come to…not complain.”  
“Sure.”

“Chandelier” faded into Starboy.   
By the time the whole album finished, I knew his name (“Maul,” he shrugged) and that he was an instructor in Beginning Ballet at the university (“I also enjoy Turkish belly dance, but it’s not big here yet.”) and I knew I was hearing the stuff he enjoyed—the things he did in class were traditional ballet pieces and were autopilot by now. It was easy to talk now that I had a face and a name to put with our shared love of music. There was also some undercurrent of chemistry, something electric stirring in the space between us. 

I figured I’d wasted a lot of evenings by now.  
Starboy faded into Rumours. By “You Make Loving Fun” I knew those tattoos went all the way down.

 

When it was time to renew my lease that December, management was a little surprised. “We’ve got other openings now, one is right across the street from Old Main. Are you sure?”  
“Absolutely.”  
I got back that night in time to hear "Bon Voyeurs" starting. There would be plenty of time to bring down dinner while he rehearsed. December was far too cold to leave the windows open anymore, but it didn’t matter. He hadn’t had a noise complaint in six months and I hadn’t had to wonder about what might have been.

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so this came up as part of a weird conversation with my husband about how everything probably would have been fine if Maul hadn't decided to go all batshit and continue making bad life choices after being King of Trash Mountain. I mean, I've seen a ton of martial arts AUs, some done really well, but I don't think this has happened yet. Like, what do you do with that skill set and without an all-consuming need to fuck up Ben Kenobi?  
> Formerly-Darth-Now-Just-Maul: Lord of the Dance.
> 
> The bit with the neighbor with awesome music taste happened to us. But their lease went up before ours did--it happens in college towns. We never got to know them.


End file.
